December 30, 2011: Change

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I’ve been putting off writing my next entry until “things settled down” a bit, or until “I have a little more time.”  Now, one day before the end of 2011, I’m admitting to myself that things are never going to settle down, and if I’m lucky, I will never have a little more time.

I’m busy with a hundred things, and for this I am grateful.  As I move from project to project, during those rare transitional moments when reflection is possible, I begin to latch onto the idea that change defines me.  I don’t think I made that up.  I think I read about it in a Buddhism book while I was soaking up the Mexico sun the week before Christmas.  OK, so I guess I haven’t been that busy.  I was lucky enough to get a week’s true vacation, and for this I am grateful too.

When I Google “change,” the top five results are as follows:

1.     www.change.org, “an online advocacy platform that empowers anyone, anywhere to start, join, and win campaigns for social change.”
2.      www.dictionary.com, whose first definition of “change” is “to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone: to change one's name; to change one's opinion; to change the course of history.”
3.      Change.gov, President Obama’s campaign website.
4.      The Wikipedia page for “change” which begins by saying that “change may refer to the process of becoming different,” (yup.)

    and

5.      Thinkexist.com, a webpage full of inspirational quotes about change, including (near the top) “what you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others” – Pericles, 495 BC – 429 BC.

I can’t quote the book I was reading because I already returned it to the library (it was Buddhism is Not What You Think by Steve Hagen, for anyone interested), but the author talked a lot about how we are in a constant state of change, and in fact change is the only constant in our lives.  He even discussed the philosophical idea that it is impossible to define ourselves concretely – for example, he said that he didn’t write the book I was reading, because the “he” who wrote one word was different from the “he” who wrote the next word.  He was constantly changing, so he could not say to me “I am the author of Buddhism is Not What You Think,” because the “Steve Hagen” who put the period at the end of the last sentence only existed for a moment, and then he changed.  I am a different person than I was when I was 5 or 15, or than I will be when I’m 65 – and truly, I’m never the same from one moment to the next.

I don’t know how important it is to contemplate this idea too deeply.  To meditate deeply on the idea of “no self,” because of the constancy of change seems a little counter-productive, at least to me at this point in my life.  However, the more I let the awareness and acceptance of change live in the back of my mind, the more I realize the simplicity of its truth.  Maybe that means it is, in fact, really important and relevant.

Setting aside, for a moment, the necessity of letting go the idea of “self” to let in the idea of “change,” let’s go back to my top five Google results.  We’ve got two platforms for social change (change is such a powerful word, in fact, that it carried our current president into office: “Change We Can Believe In!”), and a plethora of inspirational quotes dating back 2000+ years.  Change is powerful.  Change is constant.  Change may refer to the process of becoming different (!)

Over the years, my mom has offered me grains of wisdom that stuck with me.  One was that I should “create my own happiness.”  Another was that I should “embrace change.”  She used her parents as an example: they’re in their 80’s now, but rather than taking on the stereotypical old-person’s attitude that things were so much better “back in my day,” they change with the times.  They buy and learn the new technology as it comes out; my grandpa even has a Facebook account.  Rather than bracing against change and longing for the days when things were different, they go with the flow, and they are happier for it.  I think this is hugely important.

Being in school allowed me to have a single-minded focus, driving toward a concrete goal.  Achieving that goal, I was faced with the question “what next?” and the easiest answer was “well, I’m in a transitional time.”  And there’s nothing wrong with that answer, exactly, unless I use it as an excuse not to continue filling my life with purpose.  Every “time” is “transitional.”  We’re always moving forward, and what we’re moving into is different from where we’ve been.  My point, I think, is that although I’m no longer able to have the same single-minded focus toward a concrete goal that I had while I was in school, that doesn’t mean I’m failing.  It’s just a testament to the way life is always changing.

I have two stories I really want to tell, but they’ll have to wait.  One is about how I was a zombie in a haunted house at Halloween, and another is about being on a girl’s high school cross country team for a Nike commercial.  I’ll tell them.  They’re worth telling.  Hold me to it.

October 9, 2011: Awareness; Presence; Empowerment; and Flow

I am a Fitzmaurice Voice Teacher-in-Training.  Over the last eight weeks, I’ve practiced teaching the technique to small groups of people, mostly actors.  Since the technique, in its early stages, centers around a physical exploration of breath in the body, students often experience unexpectedly deep emotion as they practice it.  This experience may be tied to a specific emotional memory, or it may be a response rooted in the muscles and breath, with no specific event memory tied to it.  Either way, the response is very real and often powerful, frightening, and difficult to handle, especially for new students of the work.

As I’ve begun to teach this sensitive practice, I’m struck with an important question: what is my role as a teacher of this work when a student encounters an emotional response, and how do I undertake that role with honesty, awareness, and compassion?

As a student of the work, I’ve experienced emotional responses in two very different ways.  The first, more common response for me, is one that takes me by surprise, overwhelms me, and causes me to step back from it.  I feel the emotion as it starts to overtake me, and then I sort of brace for it, wallow in it for a while, and then recover from it.  I leave the class feeling exhausted, like I’ve worked really hard.  The second kind of “emotional response experience” I’ve had feels more like moving through the emotion and stepping out the other side, transformed.   Here, I traverse a path through the experience I’m having, not knowing what will be on the other side but forging ahead nonetheless.  This kind of experience is a true emotional “release” and leaves me feeling open, enlivened, and empowered.

If my students encounter emotion through their explorations of the Fitzmaurice Voicework, I’d like for their experience to be empowering, not crippling.  I’d like to bolster their courage to move through their experience rather than being paralyzed and turning away from it.  At the same time, I know their experience must be uniquely theirs, and I cannot project my own experiences or expectations onto what they are exploring.  My task is a delicate one; but if I get caught up in the delicacy of it, I run the risk of sucking the joy out of an exploration that, while sensitive, should also be buoyant and playful.

Is there any hope for me?

Yes, I think it can be done.  I’ve been thinking about a number of principles that can help guide my journey.  They aren’t concrete answers, but in this question I don’t think any concrete answers exist.

Compassion.  Joan Halifax, a Zen Buddhist, anthropologist, ecologist, civil rights activist, and author, says in a speech entitled Compassion and the True Meaning of Empathy (www.ted.com/talks/joan_halifax.html):  “Compassion, which activates the motor cortex, means that we aspire to transform suffering; and if we are so blessed, we engage in activities that transform suffering.  But compassion has another component, and that component is really essential.  That component is that we cannot be attached to outcome. . . Any attachment to outcome [will] distort deeply [our] capacity to be fully present.”  As a Fitzmaurice teacher, it is my job to help my students transform their deep emotions (which may be frightening or uncomfortable, like suffering) to a feeling of empowerment.  But as I endeavor to help them, I cannot have a fixed idea of what lies ahead; I cannot be attached to outcome.  While offering my own strength, vulnerability, and presence in the moment, my job is to witness them honestly as they traverse their path themselves.

Presence in the Moment, or Embracing the Unknown.  Galway Kinnell’s poem Prayer says:

                Whatever happens.  Whatever

                what is is is what

                I want.  Only that.  But that.

In teaching the Fitzmaurice Voicework, especially as it relates to dealing with students’ experiences of emotion, there are elements of letting go and diving into the frightening, vast, and delicious unknown (“Whatever/ what is is”) with an entirely appropriate mix of careful compassion and reckless abandon.  There are times for both, and only attentiveness to the present moment will illuminate which is which.  In and then you act, Anne Bogart calls us to “imagine art as the space at the end of a breath before the next inhalation.  Time stops.  An actor knows that each inhalation can come as a surprise” (133-134).  Bogart invites us to discover our breath together, and the space between our breaths, as a doorway into letting go of expectations – which is also what the Fitzmaurice Voicework helps us do.

Attentiveness/Availability.  In Firstlight, Sue Monk Kidd suggests that “attentiveness is entering fully the moment you are currently in . . . and simply being present with it” (37).  As a teacher of the Fitzmaurice work, I seek not only to do this myself, but also to teach my students to do it.  “Such deep availability requires a hospitality that receives people as they are, without necessarily seeking to cure, fix, or repair their problems.  When you practice mindful availability, you are simply there with your heart flung open” (Kidd, 51).  Simple availability and attention to what is happening in the moment are important principles for teaching and practicing the Fitzmaurice Voicework.

Flow, or Being a Conduit.  During my first month of Fitzmaurice Voice Teacher training, several of the teachers talked about “flow,” and noticing the experience of transition.  Flow can mean a lot of things, but as I consider its relation to helping my students move through an experience of emotion, I realize that emotions naturally flow through us like waves; and in the natural course of things, one experience transitions to the next.  When we encounter experiences that are new or frightening, we might instinctively brace against change; but I would like to help my students explore change instead.  In order to do that, I must first experience my own sense of internal flow, and then offer my experience of flow to my students in whatever way is appropriate in the moment.  In a way, I am endeavoring to be a conduit of all the principles I’ve described, and as a conduit, offer these experiences to my students so that they may make their own discoveries.

All these ideas are well and good, but how, specifically, can I put them into practice?  I think teaching the Fitzmaurice Voicework is an art, and like any art I think it will take practice, time, study, patience, risk, failure, and gradual growth.  In time, I think I will begin to discover my own authentic way of offering what I have learned to my students, and continuing to grow with them as I continue to grow and change myself.  While that is true, I have some ideas about how to begin.

Introduce and reinforce the idea of empowerment.  When I realized my emotions could be a source of personal power, it was a huge revelation.  I can offer this idea to my students near the beginning of our work together, and reinforce it as that feels appropriate.  To me, empowerment means I can use my emotions to move into action.  I can express myself; I can live at the forefront of my own experience and move forward through each moment rather than being held captive by what is happening to me.  I think a discussion of this idea of emotional experience as a source of power can be a tool for my students to store away in case they decide to use it later.

Cultivate a sense of ensemble.  I do this by making the choice to engage openly and honestly at the beginning of each class, and (by example) encouraging my students to do the same.  I do this by mixing group games and partner work into our activities.  I do this by slowly, gradually, asking my students to engage with each other in ways that require trust.  I do this by remembering to lay out ground rules for our activities, and discussing their experiences afterwards.  By cultivating a sense of ensemble, I am helping to establish a safe environment where a student who experiences strong emotion will know that their peers and I are there to support them.

Communicate honestly, or “teach what’s in front of me.”  During my first month of Teacher Training, Catherine Fitzmaurice reminded us often to “teach what’s in front of us.”  I think this means I need to keep my eyes and ears open to what my students are giving me.  I can prepare with lesson plans and form goals for myself and the class, but I need to constantly evaluate and re-evaluate those plans based on what the class is telling and showing me.  I need to be honest with myself and them about what I perceive.  There is a reality that I am “the teacher” and they are “the students,” but there is perhaps a more important reality that we are all human beings with a wide, rich, and equally valid range of experiences, ideas, abilities, and strengths.  If I can recognize and cultivate the humanity in my classroom, that will go a long way.

Go for it!  In August I participated in a week of training with Shakespeare & Co., a program that brings Shakespeare to high schools in highly accessible ways.  One of the things they reminded us was “You Are Enough,” meaning by the time I walk through the door to teach my class, I can trust that I’ve prepared and learned enough to be there.  It doesn’t matter that I have a lot more learning and growing left to do; on that day, for that class, in that moment, “I am enough,” and I can trust that the class will be successful.

September 2, 2011: A Tiny Moment

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As I sit down to write this reflection for the blog-o-sphere, I realize August has passed me by.  When last we left our fearless adventurer Jenny, she was getting ready to open her play, Much Ado About Nothing, while dodging amorous park exhibitionists and late-night sprinklers.  Now, I'm heading into our closing weekend, having braved a plethora of unexpected events.  There was the Maryhill windstorm that required all off-stage cast members to hold onto our tent to keep it from taking flight.  During this adventure, our Benedick (who is also our set designer) perceived the need to let some of the air out of the tent and, since we were getting a new tent the next weekend, decided to cut an air escape route in the roof.  After hunting around for scissors or a knife, he plucked the dagger from Don Pedro's costume and valiantly stabbed a hole in the roof just as Beatrice declared onstage: "and Benedick, love on, I will requite thee!"  There was our 96-degree performance (hot for this Portland summer) in a venue where our stage was in the sun.  When offstage, we would suck water, put ice down our shirts, and fling ourselves to the ground, unable to support our own weight a second longer than was necessary.  Our set, that day, agreed with our response to the suffocating heat, as one of our side arches buckled and collapsed under its own weight at the beginning of our second act, just as Borachio asks "Dost thou hear someone?" to which, that day, Conrade replied "no, tis just this arch falling over."  We've had our share of interesting audience members, too: there was a woman who brought her spinning wheel and spent the whole play spinning straw into gold (half of that is true . . .); there was a homeless man who Dogberry nearly convinced, during our pre-show, to become a member of the watch; there were three separate groups of people who came dressed in full period outfits -- corsets, top hats, walking sticks and all. 

But truly, I wanted to write about something else today: a tiny experience that snapped me to attention for a moment of clarity and leaves me, weeks later, wondering at its significance. 

I was called to be an extra on the final episode of the current season of Leverage.  For those of you who don't know, Leverage is a TNT show filmed in Portland, about -- well, I'm not really sure.  I know it involves good guys and bad guys.  This particular episode featured a room full of business executives at a cocktail party (i.e. 250 Portland actors and other under-employed people who owned business-wear and could be available for 14 hours on a Monday with less than 24 hours' notice). 

This was my fourth time ever being an extra, and although I don't intend to make a habit of it, I do find it interesting and useful to be on a set, watching the way filming gets done.  About 10 hours into our day, I realized there were some famous actors in the room with me.  In my defense, I had spent the first 6 hours of my day in an extras holding area, waiting to be called to do something.  When I was called into the scene, I moved into the room along with all 250 of the other party-goers, listening attentively to the Extras Wrangler who served as interpreter between the director and the somewhat unwieldy mob of restless extras.  My attentiveness earned me some highlight moves as the Extras Wrangler caught my eye: "You!  Walk over here as the camera rolls by!"  I hope it isn't my ten minutes of fame, but having a task kept me mildly entertained as the same scene was shot over and over. 

But the "significant moment" happened, as I said, about 10 hours into the shoot when I realized there were some famous actors in the room with me.  Specifically, I recognized Leon Rippy (although I had to look up his name when I got home), the actor who played David's creepy southern lawyer in The Life of David Gale.  That movie is one of a very few that actually took my breath away.  I won't spoil the ending if you haven't seen it, but it twists to reveal a truth that, when I witnessed it, was almost more than I could fathom.  I saw it twice by myself in the theater and again with Steve when we were first dating. 

So when I saw Leon Rippy (i.e., "the actor who played the creepy lawyer in that movie that changed my life"), I was star-struck in a way I hadn't anticipated.  I wanted to watch him act, but my position in the room wouldn't allow me to hear the dialog, and it was difficult to keep my eye on him without drawing the attention of the Extras Wrangler for not appearing natural.  (Extras Wrangler: "I don't think party guest number 147 should be craning her neck like that."  Me: "No, it's this yoga thing I'm working on.  It's part of my character."  Extras Wrangler: "There's no yoga in this scene.  Face forward, drink your soda-water champagne, and laugh like you're having a good time.")

Presently, we were starting a new scene and all the extras were being herded to one side of the room while the principal actors moved to the other side.  I was roughly in the middle of the throng, at the edge of the corridor being created for the actors to move between us.  Trying not to step on anyone's toes, I suddenly looked up and found myself face to face with Leon Rippy, the-actor-who-played-the-creepy-lawyer-in-that-movie-that-changed-my-life!  Inexplicably, he stopped, offered me his hand, and asked my name.  "Jenny," I said, grinning like an idiot.  "It's nice to meet you, Jenny.  I'm Leon," he said, and winked at me.  Then he moved on through the mob of extras and crew. 

As he moved away from me, tears came to my eyes.  I looked across the parted sea of extras at a guy I didn't know and whispered "he shook my hand!"  The guy whispered "who is that?"  I shook my head and watched Leon disappear into the crowd. 

That’s Leon Rippy, the-actor-who-winked-at-me-on-a-TV-shoot-once. 

July 31, 2011: Much Ado About... Sprinklers, Darkness, and Lovemaking

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I’ve had the pleasure of rehearsing Much Ado About Nothing for the last 4 weeks.  It’s been a pleasure for many reasons: I’m playing a villain, which is something I’ve never done before and may never get to do again; I’m vocal coaching the show, which is a new and challenging experience; and I’m working with a group of talented, dedicated, pleasant-spirited people.

As Portland’s Shakespeare in the Parks company, we play in a different park each weekend, but we’ve been rehearsing for the last week in the park where we opened this weekend.  Our playing space is at the bottom of a large staircase, which means we get to haul our set, costumes, and tent down and back up the stairs each day.  Although this is not an ideal situation, it’s actually not a big deal either, because everyone is so gracious about it.  We don’t complain about what a pain it is; instead, we make jokes about getting in shape.  We help each other out, everybody pitches in, and nobody leaves until everything is done.  These are not rules that had to be either named or enforced – it’s just what has happened since the beginning of tech week, and I’m proud to be part of such a generous group of people.

Despite our laudable work ethic, there were a few wrinkles in the week.  Monday was our first rehearsal in the park and our first time loading everything in, and we got started a little late.  Although we had gotten to the park at 6pm, we didn’t finish our run until about 9:30, by which time it was pitch black, and the park has very little lighting.  Our director decided it was unsafe for us to try to load out in the dark, so we waited for the producer to bring flashlights and lanterns.  We were maybe halfway done with the tear-down when the park sprinklers came on about 50 feet away from us on both sides.  This caused a bit of a panic, and we cleared the area with as much speed as is possible while carrying heavy equipment up stairs in the dark.  The sprinklers in our area came on as if on cue just as we moved the last items out of the way.

Our final dress rehearsal was Thursday night, and we were entertained by an amorous couple on the hillside no more than 20 feet from stage and in direct view of the people waiting backstage.  They were engaged in what can only be described as “heavy petting” lasting through most of Act I and Intermission.  When I came offstage after my first scene in Act II, I rounded the corner of the viewing area just in time to see the girl TAKE OFF HER SHORTS and… well, perhaps I’ve said too much already.  Their boldness made my jaw drop, and I wondered why they hadn’t chosen a more secluded area to consummate their evening.  They were on a hillside surrounded by well-trimmed grass and no bushes, and at this particular moment they actually had a pretty good spotlight created by a well-aimed patch of light from the setting sun shining through the branches of a tree at the bottom of the hill.  Surely they were aware that they were in the company of 16 thespians rehearsing a play, as well as various other park-dwellers in relative close proximity.  Did they think the brilliance of our performance would overshadow their lovemaking, drawing all eyes past their show and onto our stage?  That’s flattering, I suppose, but unrealistic.  While Benedick and Beatrice confessed their love with words onstage, Amorous Park Exhibitionists 1 and 2 gave us a real live physical love demonstration.

Ah, the wonders of Nature.

July 16, 2011: Words to the Wise

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So, I was at a film shoot a few months ago during which one of the camera guys made an off-handed comment, during one of the breaks, that he hates people who blog: “I mean, really, YOUR LIFE IS NOT THAT INTERESTING!” – I think those were his exact words.

Being, in general, an even-tempered and non-confrontational person, I smiled, nodded, and declined to offer the argument that I blog, and this must therefore mean he hates ME.  I think this would have killed both the conversation and the good cheer of those involved in the filming.

But his comment has been festering in the back of my brain since then, and it makes me want to blog in an especially witty, creative and deeply meaningful fashion.  So in an attempt to make this entry more profound, I offer this moral in advance: “Observation is the Seed of Wisdom.”

Steve and I joined a gym last week.

It seemed like an appropriate decision, given my obsession with working out and the gym’s proximity to our apartment: Google maps says that from our front door to theirs, it is 0.6 miles by car or 0.3 miles by foot.  It’s less if I cut across my neighbor’s lawn and hop the wall around the gym parking lot.  I’m certain that if necessary, a carrier pigeon could deliver a message from me to my personal trainer in 45 seconds.  That is, of course, assuming I had paid the extra monthly fee to hire a personal trainer.

This brings me to my next point.  As part of the sales pitch to get us to become gym members, our sales associate offered me and Steve each a personal training session with the gym manager himself (we’ll call him Albert).  I remember thinking it odd that the gym manager would conduct these sessions – isn’t that why they pay a staff of personal trainers with varying hours and specialties (and, presumably, a lower paycheck)?

My question was answered when I showed up for mine two days later.  Albert and I were scheduled for an hour together, which seemed like kind of a lot of personal training, but I was up for the challenge.

The challenge turned out not to be related to muscle strength or flexibility, but to endurance of a sales presentation.

I spent the first 25 minutes of our session filling out a questionnaire about my health and fitness goals, and listening to Albert’s speech about the pillars of health and fitness, complete with a myriad of chicken-scratchy illustrations he provided on the back of my questionnaire as he spoke.

For about 15 minutes in the middle of our session, Albert led me to one end of the gym and had me do some pretty basic lunges, squats, and ab exercises.  He reminded me repeatedly that the session he was giving me was different from any other gym because it was tailored specifically to my personal needs.  I wanted to ask him how that was true, but he never really stopped talking.

The last 20 minutes of our session were back at Albert’s desk with a sheet of rates and an impressive list of reasons why I needed to sign up for a year of personal training RIGHT THEN.  Albert told me that during my workout he noticed that my lower back and upper body were very weak, that my right side was stronger than my left side, and that it was imperative that I work out with a trainer to avoid injury and ensure that I meet my fitness goals.

Let’s examine his observations a little more closely:

 1.   That my lower back and upper body were very weak.  Now, I don’t mean to brag – that really isn’t my point.  But I can do bicep curls with 20-pound weights, and I can do pull-ups without assistance.  So, I’m sorry Albert, but I’m inclined to disagree with that part of your assessment – and I also wonder how you felt you could determine the shape of my upper body by watching me do lunges.

  
2.    That my right side was stronger than my left side.  OK.  Maybe that’s true.  Don’t we all have a dominant side?  And I wonder if his sole basis for this conclusion was his observation, while I was filling out the detailed questionnaire, that I am right handed.

3.   That it is imperative that I work out with a trainer to avoid injury and ensure that I meet my fitness goals.  Well, Albert, if you had read my questionnaire, you would have noticed that I have been working out consistently for 15 years, that my only injury of note was a broken tailbone 6 months ago from falling on the ice, and that my fitness goal is to maintain my current level of fitness.

So, thanks Albert, but I think I’ll pass.

Meet your intention to your observation, your observation to your word, and your word to your action – and there, you will find… I don’t know, truth?  Fulfillment?  Connection?  Success?  Albert, I wish you these things, and the inspiration to develop a more useful personal training pitch.

June 26, 2011: Lawn Bowling with Herb

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Sometimes the best activities are unplanned.

My cousin Lexie bussed over from Washington, DC to visit me for the weekend, and on our way through Central Park to wait in line for free tickets for the evening’s Shakespeare in the Park performance, a guy handed us a flyer advertising “free food and lawn bowling” that afternoon.  He told us to turn right after the amphitheater and look for a lot of people wearing white – we couldn’t miss it.

We reached the line for Shakespeare in the Park at about noon, knowing they started handing out tickets at 1:00 for the evening’s 8pm performance.  I had noticed on the website that Shakespeare in the Park “neither suggests nor condones lining up before the park opens at 6am,” so I wondered vaguely if we were silly to expect to get tickets so late in the day.

As we approached the head of the line, we realized how the serious Shakespeare in the Park fans get it done.  There were several couples lounging on blankets, and one was even asleep on an air mattress.  Multiple groups had tables and folding chairs with picnic meals, drinks, and games of Scrabble or cards.  Further down the line, the less-prepared theatergoers were situated less comfortably, standing or sitting on the pavement, entertaining themselves with iPhones and conversation.  Lexie and I joined this second group at the end of the line (which was perhaps ¼ mile long) halfway between a trash can and some benches, directly on top of a sewer grate and at the edge of some shade.

We pretended we were waiting in line at Disney Land; we listened to a saxophone-playing busker who worked his way slowly down the line, playing a song and then moving 20 feet and playing another.  We giggled at the irony of his choice of location (he did realize, didn’t he, that he was asking for tips from a line full of freeloaders willing to waste the better part of a day standing in line for free theatre tickets?).  We accepted flyers for two alternate free Shakespeare performances by other local groups that we could attend if we were unable to get tickets for Shakespeare in the Park.  And finally, near 1:00 a security guard welcomed us to “Shakespeare in the Park: THE LINE,” informed us that there were 1800 seats in the theatre and pointed 50 yards behind us at the “Rock of Hope,” which marked the point at which they usually run out of tickets.

We did, in fact, get tickets, and headed off in search of the free food and lawn bowling (who could resist that combination of temptations?) advertised on the morning’s flyer.  Our search turned into a bit of a quest, as we discovered that turning right at the amphitheatre as our flyer-man had suggested led us to a row of locked Port-a-Potties, behind which were a pond for tiny sailboat racing, an Alice in Wonderland statue, and a petting zoo.  Retracing our steps and turning left instead of right, we encountered a harpist, 3 more saxophone players, a magic show, a street fair (where there was a couple racing against time to stuff a tent into a bag and put it into the trunk of a car, to a wildly cheering crowd; drummers on a stage; and 18 different kinds of tea to sample), and a group of toddlers pushing tiny soccer balls in slow motion in the general direction of several giant goals, to the vague encouragement of their brightly-clothed soccer camp leaders.  About to give up hope, we finally stumbled upon the lawn bowling about half a mile in the exact opposite direction our flyer friend had pointed us.

We were ushered into the club of men wearing white shirts and white hats, whose average age was approximately 70, and one woman who was handing out the balls.  We each chose a pair of the grapefruit-sized heavy lawn bowling balls and were shepherded to Herb, a white-haired, watery-eyed, slightly humpbacked gentleman who was proud to be in his fourth year of Lawn Bowling Club membership.  He explained the rules (you put one foot on the small mat and the other on the large mat and roll your ball at the target), the strategy (you want to roll your ball like a tire, and aim to the right of the target because your ball will curve slightly left if you’re holding it correctly), and the form (bend your knees! Stay low to the ground! Grip the ball tightly! Keep your eye on the target!).  After the first round, he played us left-handed, and still beat us, 8 to 1 to 1.

Then there was a game called Spider, where there was a white target ball in the middle of the field and we all spaced ourselves around the edges and rolled our balls at the target all at once.  It was 3 seconds of thrilling good fun, where the heavy black balls streaked toward each other like large, round spiders, then collided and ricocheted off each other, to end in a haphazard mess generally near the center of the field.  The person who rolled the ball that landed closest to the center won some free Lawn Bowling merchandise; I was within 3 balls of winning – ah, so close.

Afterwards, Herb gave us his business card and invited us to join the club – they play every Saturday and have free lessons on Monday nights.  I have no particular burning desire to pursue Lawn Bowling, but it was an afternoon of good, honest fun with kindhearted people.

June 19, 2011: Self-Discovery Through Destructuring

06-19-11

These past two weeks have flown by, and they have also been so full of experience and learning that it seems like I’ve been here much longer.

I am studying Fitzmaurice Voicework with Catherine Fitzmaurice herself, who spent more than 20 years developing the technique.  Catherine is a 70-something woman with a large but not intimidating presence.  She has long white hair and a deep, rich British voice that fills a room and commands attention.  But her energy is that of a much younger person: we did an exercise last week that involved swinging a padded paddle down onto some raised mats repeatedly and vigorously, and she demonstrated the technique herself; she told a ridiculous anecdote about an impromptu visit from her son that involved a late dinner and an even later viewing of Green Lantern in 3-D from the 4th row; she is plugged into the cyber-world on her Blackberry and her MacBook, and she is tickled by Google’s interactive Doodles.

But Catherine is not the only teacher in the program.  She brings a wide variety of skilled teachers from different backgrounds, each with a passion for the work as great as her own.  Studying with these various teachers gives me multiple ways into the work, and my curiosity and interest in continuing my journey with Fitzmaurice Voicework is truly piqued.

The technique is about more than vocal cords or resonance or articulation.  It is a whole-body, whole-self approach to voice.  “Destructuring,” which I’ve been studying for the last two weeks, involves opening up the body, breath, and voice through a combination of methods, mainly “tremoring,” which is just what it sounds like.  Inspired by yoga, Catherine found a number of different body positions that could be used to induce “tremor,” a gentle or vigorous shaking in the body.  We actually tremor naturally – when we’re cold, afraid, anxious, or exhausted – it’s part of our body’s natural healing system.  When we induce tremor, we encourage the breath to open up in different ways, and we shake loose long-held tensions, which often releases emotions that we unknowingly hold with those tensions.  This is helpful for an actor because it helps to realize a wider range of expressivity, and it is helpful for the voice because it allows a wider, fuller, more resonant and open sound.  And, as an added bonus, I have found that it is helpful for me as a human being, not only because of the cathartic nature of the process of release, but because through this process I am discovering a depth and a strength within myself.

June 5, 2011: Impressions of New York

It’s Sunday night before I start Fitzmaurice Voice Teacher Certification classes for a month in New York.  I’ve been here since Wednesday, and I’m afraid there may be too many impressions rattling around in my head to flow cohesively into any sort of congruous story.

My room is in a 3-bedroom apartment in Astoria that I share with 4 roommates: 2 human and 2 feline.  The cats run the place.  They’re very friendly and very bold, and if they get into a bedroom they shed everywhere, destroy things, or crawl under the bed never to be retrieved.  So we all keep our doors shut all the time, and our schedules are so different that we rarely see each other.

Since I’ve been in town, I’ve reconnected with a friend from college, five friends from my Russia program, and two friends from South Florida.  I’ve been to the Metropolitan Art Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, Central Park, and I’ve seen a play called Cradle and All.  I’ve admired the Empire State Building, walked through Times Square, and used the bathroom in Trump Tower.  I’ve gotten the songs of various street names stuck in my head as I navigated between these places: “42^nd Street,” “Broadway,” “6^th Avenue Heartache.”  I’ve bought an “I <3 New York” T-shirt.  I’m living the romantic, adventurous city-girl life.

And yet, I don’t love New York.  Perhaps my brief stint living in L.A. soured me on all big cities forever, or maybe I’m just a suburban girl by blood.  I’m glad I’ve figured out that even though I’m an actor and most of us resolve to move to a big city at some point to make our breaks, the city just isn’t for me.  It’s fun to visit, but I don’t want to stay.

Homeless people abound here.  I suppose that’s true of any city.  But there seems to be something different about the homeless people here.  Last night as I got off the subway, there was a homeless man sitting by the subway exit who had fallen asleep in a half-eaten bowl of soup (at least, I think he was sleeping.  I didn’t check to see if he was alive.).  In the same spot tonight as I left the subway, two policemen were leading a very drunk homeless man down the stairs toward a waiting ambulance and more cops.  I saw a woman who looked comparatively clean and “normal” holding a sign saying she was recently widowed and had lost everything.  If she hadn’t been sitting on the street holding the sign, she would not have looked homeless at all.  But the girl who made the biggest impression on me could not have been older than 21 or 22 and like the widowed woman, looked comparatively clean.  She was sitting on some steps with a cup and a sign that said “scared, desperate, HUNGRY, please help,” and her deeply circled eyes had, not the expression of mental instability or vacancy common to the homeless, but such a deep sadness that I couldn’t help but think she had moved to New York to make her dreams come true and was mourning the inexplicable loss of those dreams.  A lady walking in front of me handed the girl a Ziploc sack of quarters, and this action startled the girl out of her depressed gaze.  She looked blankly at the change for a second, and then smiled at the lady with a combination of relief and awe that, although genuinely thankful, barely covered the sadness with which she was so clearly consumed.

New York can swallow a person.  The sheer number of people here is incomprehensible to me.  My apartment in Astoria is not in “the city,” but still out my window all I see are tall buildings – people on top of people on top of people.  They fill the sidewalks, the subways, the cafes and bookstores.  They move in throngs to the designated “park” areas, the only grass that exists anywhere.  Sucking the exhaust and wafting aromas of garbage, urine, and the sewer, they don headphones to drown out the noise of traffic and go jogging, darting between the dog-walkers and slow-moving tourists.  They chase The American Dream that everyone believes exists here, but I am hard-pressed to find it.  What I see is dirt, impatience, and the thick shell that necessarily develops on everyone who decides to put up with it all to live in a place where everything happens.  I suppose it’s laudable.  I couldn’t do it; I would crumble within a year.

Despite my cynical tone, I truly am enjoying myself here.  I am grateful to experience some of what New York has to offer without having to harden myself permanently against everything that bothers me about the city.  And I hope I haven’t offended anyone who loves New York.  I think my opinion of the city is a minority one:  18.9 million people choose to live here, and another 48.7 million (and rising) tourists visit yearly.  I’m just one Western girl with one opinion, looking forward to a month in The Big Apple, and to going home at the end of that month.

May 14, 2011: The Longest Train Ride

WARNING: this entry is rated PG-13, or possibly R.  You might think I’m kidding, but then you’ll realize I’m not.  OK, you’ve been warned.

On Monday night I attended the second meeting for a theatre-related organization of which I’m proud to be a founding member.  We’re basically combining two awesome things: recycling/sharing and the arts.  When we get it up and running, it will be a big warehouse with a meeting room and a bunch of space to store all kinds of arts materials (in the theatre world, we’re thinking set pieces that have been used and would otherwise be thrown away due to lack of storage space).  We want to keep art materials/supplies out of the landfills and also enable them to be reused to make MORE ART!

But this is not the point of my story.

After the meeting on Monday night, at the late, scary hour of 8:40 pm, I took the train home.  It’s about a 20 minute ride from downtown to my stop, and with the approach of summer, the last threads of dusk light faded as I boarded the train.

I sat in the first bank of seats by the door, the kind that are a group of four, with two facing forward and two facing backward.  If you put a table in between them it might be a good place to play checkers or have high tea – you know, if it wasn’t a public train in the no-fare zone smelling faintly of booze and body odor.

I almost had the train to myself.  My section of “high tea” seats was nestled comfortably between the barrier of glass (I wonder if it’s bullet-proof?  I wonder why it’s there?) on either side of the doors in front of me, and a partial wall hiding the accordion-turning-thingy (that’s the technical term for it) separating the front part of the car from the back part of the car.  A guy chillin’ with his headphones was slouched about six seats (and two bullet-proof glass sheets) in front of me, and a girl talking on her cell phone was sitting all the way in the front.  The back of the car was empty.  I had one stop to enjoy my quiet, stress-free evening ride.

At the first stop, a biker dude carried his bike up the steps and headed toward the back of the car, and I wondered vaguely why he didn’t choose the next car (there is always at least one train car that doesn’t have steps up, to accommodate bikers, wheelchairs, elderly people, strollers, and people who have a disaffinity to stairs).  He was followed by a guy and a girl whispering rapidly to each other, and a skinny pale guy wearing running shorts and a baggy black sweatshirt.  He’s really the star of our story; we’ll call him Creepster McGillicutty.

Creepster McG, seeing (I’m sure) the vast array of available empty seats in both parts of the train car, took one look at me in my yoga pants, windbreaker, and blank expression and thought, “SHE needs a BLOG entry.  I have JUST the story for her.”

Ah, but Creepster McGillicutty was a man of few words and many body positions.  His first posture, as he sat down in my seating bay facing toward me, revealed to me that he was not, in fact, wearing running shorts.  No, he was wearing a baggy black sweatshirt… and sneakers.

It occurred to me at this moment to get up and exit the train before the doors closed.  It occurred to me, in fact, to scream loudly as I did so “Somebody call the driver!  Somebody call the cops!  Somebody give that guy some underwear!”  But you see, Creepster McG had stretched his legs out toward me, so that exiting would have forced me to step over them, and in my shock and rising panic at Creepster’s law-breaking boldness, I had the smallest suspicion that I might not reach the doors alive.  Or, that I would stumble and touch something that should be reserved for police reports and porn.

So the doors closed and the train rumbled on.  Aiming my eyes out the window but focusing my peripheral vision on my view of Creepster McGillicutty, I forced my gaze to remain bored and standoffish.  My mind raced.  Creepster leered, opened his legs a bit wider and leered some more.

Nobody got on at the next stop, and I thought, again, about trying to get off the train.  Panic turned into fleeting celebration as Creepster McG got up and moved, but only one seat away.  Now he was sitting in the aisle seat across from me leaning forward into the aisle, his eyes still boring holes into me, his unmentionable parts flopping freely.  I wondered: is he going to say something?  Does he want ME to say something?  But I didn’t move; I didn’t speak; I didn’t take my peripheral vision off him.

The train raced on, stopping once more before crossing the river.  I heard a group of people talking as they got on at the doors behind me, and I was glad of more possible witnesses of my plight.  But they didn’t take any notice, and Creepster and I remained alone in our semi-private room of bullet-proof glass, accordion-partial walls and “high tea” seats. 

As we took off across the river, Creepster McGillicutty settled in for the trek.  He scooted over one more seat and leaned against the window, putting one leg up on the chair beside him and opening the other leg, if possible, a little wider.  He leered at me.  I held my front of disinterest.  I decided to get off the train at the next stop, even though it was three stops early.

An eternity later, at the next stop on the other side of the river, a man entered the train through the doors ahead of us.  Although he didn’t seem to notice the situation, Creepster McG decided to move on and end my misery.  He got up and walked toward the back of the train, and the partial wall blocked my vision, so I don’t know who else he harassed.

I got off at my stop, power walked home, raged at Steve, posted a humorous Facebook status, bought some mace… and here we are, five days later, at the end of our story.  I heard that the first Friday of May was National No Pants Day, and according to Google, it’s true.  But also according to Google, you’re supposed to wear thick, modest underwear on National No Pants Day, and also my story happened on the SECOND MONDAY of May, and also we don’t live in a society of Aborigine hunter-gatherers, and also… just… PUT ON SOME PANTS and LEAVE ME ALONE!

That’s all.

May 4, 2011: Another Day, Another Audition

So, I went to an audition this past Sunday.  For some reason, I really had to talk myself into going.  I’d had the audition time for about a week; I knew it was coming.  But starting around Friday, I began inventing excuses I could email the director at the last minute:  “I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to make it to your audition.  I was cast in something else and it’s filming that day. . . . I lost my voice. . . . My pet rabbit is really sick and I have to take her to the vet.  . . . I’m writing you from an alien spaceship – I was abducted.”  But I’ve never been one to play hooky, and I knew deep down that I should go whether I wanted to or not.

I was auditioning for a small role in a local film, for which, if cast, I would be paid in catered food on the set, a copy of the footage for my reel, something to write on my resume, film experience (of which I have little), a chance to network and maybe get more work, the opportunity to hone my craft, the enjoyment of helping to create a piece of cinema . . . basically, I would be paid in every currency except money.  This is typical for young “professional” actors (“professional” in quotes because what does it really mean to be professional if you’re not paid for your work all the time?) in any city, I think, and certainly cities outside New York and L.A.  Allow me to go on a bit of a tangent.

I’ve heard/read “experts” say that actors should view it as their “job” to audition.  The competition being what it is, any given actor will not book the majority of roles she auditions for, so her job is to a) train and rehearse and fully prepare for each audition so that she can do her best each time, and so that her best keeps improving; and b) audition, audition, AUDITION.  This is her job because it’s what she will spend most of her time doing.  When she actually books work, this is the icing on the cake – her reward for doing her job.

I see the point, and I might even agree.  But for argument’s sake, can anybody name me another “job” that is so grossly underpaid (unpaid)?  Yeah, volunteer work.  Or an internship.  So I guess being a professional actor is like having an indefinite-term internship in the art of auditioning.  Or, you know, picking up trash next to the highway.

No, but seriously, I love being an actor, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  And when I’m still in my pajamas at 10am, rehearsing sides loudly in my living room (sorry, retired neighbor Jim), I’m thankful for that (unpaid) time to rehearse, because I’m ON MY WAY TO SUCCESS!

But what was my point?  Oh yeah.  My audition on Sunday.  It turned out to be laid back, low stress, and fun, AND I got to walk through a nice neighborhood on the way home on one of the first sunny days we’ve had in months.

Another mild digression: auditions are not always laid back, low stress or fun.  I’ve auditioned for people who never once looked up from the table at me; I’ve auditioned in a bar that was so loud I couldn’t hear the instructions the director was giving me; I’ve auditioned in a room full of people reading for the exact same role, and followed another girl so breathtakingly good I felt like telling the director to give her the part and save me the trouble; I’ve auditioned in a theatre, in a church, in somebody’s apartment, in an office building, in a hotel conference room, in a hotel ROOM only slightly bigger than my bathroom, in a film studio, in a coffee shop full of customers, in a restaurant with no electricity, in a school . . . and the thing is, I never know for sure, beforehand, what it’s going to be like.  So every audition is a bit of a crapshoot, and I’ve got to keep playing if I ever want to win.

Somebody told me that Brad Pitt was discovered because he agreed to help a friend with a scene audition.  She needed a scene partner and asked Brad to work on it with her, and he agreed.  He wasn’t even auditioning for anything, but the director liked him and he got his break.  I don’t know if that’s true, but it supports my point.

If I want to be a working actor, I will seize every possible opportunity to audition, to work, to take a step closer to my dream, because I never know which step will finally lead me there.

PS – I got the role I auditioned for on Sunday.  Like I said, it’s not paid.  But maybe the next one will be.

April 25, 2011: The Tortoise and the Hare

This past week I was part of a really exciting project in an early developmental phase.  As much as I would love to be totally honest and forthcoming about the exact name, content, nature and details of the project, I fear this might somehow infringe on the rights of those involved.  Therefore, I’m going to create, expound, exaggerate and change the people, places, and events of the following story.  But at its core is some fundamental truth.

No animals were harmed in the development of this story.

(Annabelle, if you read this, contact me.  I owe you a coffee.)

“I’d like to present to you ‘The Final Race,’ a sweet little story that puts a modern spin on the classic tale of the Tortoise and the Hare,” Marcus begins his introduction.  We’re in a small lab space in front of a workshop group gathered to provide feedback and help us progress to our next phase of production.  The space is an attic room of an old office building, divided in half by a wall that barely muffles the sounds of what is either a preschool class or a herd of elephants chasing a bunch of baby goats.  Marcus has been developing the concept of this theatre piece for more than six months, but the four of us have only met twice before now to put together this scene for feedback.

“The purpose of this session,” Marcus explains, “is to get your opinions on two specific questions I have.  First - is the scene clearer in PANTOMIME or DIALOGUE; and second - who do you see as the hero of the story?”  General nods of understanding ripple through the group (there’s Gwendolyn, a 50-something Earth Mother who wears silky flowing layers of colorful clothes and smells like patchouli; Rodney, mid-30’s, workshop-leader and minute-taker, who starts and/or finishes every sentence with “essentially,” i.e. “Essentially, you’re explaining to us, essentially, the premise of your stage piece, and I’m essentially taking notes on what is said, essentially the body of this meeting along with, essentially, the reactions to your performance.  Essentially.”  There’s Linda, who’s about 40, with mousy-colored hair, a mousy expression and a quiet squeaky voice; George, the jolly laid-back fellow who brought the breadsticks; and, finally, Annabelle, an actress who has never attended these workshops before.).   “The scene you are about to see takes place in a pasture, “ Marcus continues, “and the characters will be wearing plain primary-colored robes accented with white.  Here you see the climax of the story, in which the Tortoise wins the race and the Hare curses his bad luck.”  Marcus is interrupted by a loud thumping from next door, followed by a few feeble blasts from a tuba (the elephants have band practice next?) and Marcus repeats, more loudly, “the Hare curses his bad luck.  So you see, the Hare is very upset by this turn of events, and we follow his inner struggle.  We’ll start with the pantomime version, and follow with the dialogue version, and I look forward to your feedback regarding my questions.  Thank you.”

And, accompanied by the belching tubas next door, we proceed to pantomime our modern version of the Tortoise and the Hare, then to go through the scene again with dialogue.

Marcus kicks off the workshop discussion – “Let’s begin with the first question: was the scene clearer in PANTOMIME or DIALOGUE?”  Pouncing on the glottal stop of “dialogue,” Annabelle responds: “Pantomime.  Absolutely.  I thought the dialogue was boring and unclear, and the pantomime was far more entertaining and enjoyable.”

Gwendolyn:  “I disagree.  I liked the scene better in dialogue, not only because I felt it allowed more interaction between the actors and therefore more development of each character, but also because it provided more layers of possibility.  I think we can discuss the deeper implications of the relationship between Tortoise, Hare, and Fox, and also how to change the scene to bring out the specific qualities you wish to highlight.  The dialogue version is both more interesting and clearer for the audience.”

George:  “Yeah.  Dialogue.  Definitely.  Who wants a breadstick?”

Marcus (writing in his notebook):  “Thank you, these opinions are really helpful.  Anyone else?  Linda?”

Linda (wrinkling her nose in thought):  “Yesss...  I liked certain elements of both versions, but I’d have to say on the whole I thought the scene with dialogue was stronger and clearer.”

Rodney:  “Essentially, the group is leaning toward the dialogue version.  I’m with the group.  Essentially.”

Marcus:  “OK, great!  Moving on to the next question – ”

Annabelle (interrupting):  “I’m sorry, can I just add onto that?  I liked the pantomime version, but I really liked the scene in dialogue.  There was a lot going on between the actors, you know, so that they could really TALK to each other and they didn’t have to, like, mime everything.  You know?  That just made it so much clearer and more interesting for me.  As an audience.”

Marcus:  “Thank you – ”

Annabelle (continuing):  “Yeah, and you know, I just really SAW the Tortoise, and the Hare, and the Fox in the second one.  The dialogue one.  You know.  But I also HEARD them.  And that, to me, is so important.  You know.  In theatre.  And acting.  So it just really held my attention and had me asking WHY.  You know?  The dialogue one.  So I just liked that one way better.  Yeah, I couldn’t really CONNECT to the pantomime one.  You know?”

Marcus:  “…OK.  Great!  Some really excellent points there.  That really gives me a feel of how an audience might respond to the pantomime version versus the dialogue version.  So thank you all for your opinions about that.  Now, moving on –”

Annabelle (smiling):  “You’re welcome.”

Marcus (quickly):  “So, moving on to my next question – who did you see as the hero of the story?”

Annabelle:  “Yeah, that’s a great question.  You know, for me, it was clearly the Fox.  You know.  Because he was all like, in the background, you know?  But then he came in at the end, at the most important part, sort of RISING UP, you know?  And that’s really important.  To me.  And to, you know, humanity.”

During this discussion, I had discreetly changed out of my costume and back into my normal clothes, packed up my bag, and slinked to the far corner nearest the elephant tuba wall.  One of my fellow actors had slipped out of the room already, and I had been contemplating doing the same, until I realized I really needed to hear all of Annabelle’s wisdom.  I took mental notes.

Gwendolyn:  “You know, that’s an interesting take on the story, Annabelle.  For me, the hero was clearly the Hare.  And I thought it was really daring how you changed the traditional spin of the story that way, Marcus.  The audience really followed the plight of the Hare, and we almost resented the Tortoise for beating him in the end.  I think you could capitalize even more on the Hare’s vulnerability and his struggle.  We can discuss ways to make the audience identify with him even more.”

George (chewing):  “The Hare.  Right.  Brilliant.  Breadstick?”

Marcus:  “Can I just jump in?  I feel I should share with you that I was, in fact, hoping that the audience would identify with the Hare.  Gwendolyn, I think you hit the nail on the head there.  Thank you for summarizing that so eloquently.  Now moving on to the final question – ”

Annabelle (clapping):  “Yeah, right?  Gwendolyn, you are SO RIGHT!  You know, as I was watching, I just found myself DRAWN to the Hare.  You know?  Like, how can this journey, this HUMAN journey, be any more COMPELLING.  More HEROIC.  Right?  It’s like, just.”  (shaking her head)

Marcus:  “…OK.  Great!  So, – ”

Annabelle:  “You know, why do we CALL him the ‘Hare’?  Right?  It’s like, all these QUESTIONS.”   (shaking her head)

Marcus:  “…Right.  Yes.  It’s true, one of the main points of theatre is to make us ask those important questions.  Which brings me to my final point – are there any overall questions or comments or improvements you think I need to keep in mind as I move forward with this project?”

Annabelle:  “And, you know, WHAT IF the FOX were the hero?  You know?  How would THAT change the story?”

(silence)

Gwendolyn:  “You know, I had some specific ideas for your lighting design, and if you’d like to get together to discuss that later, I’d be happy to share them with you, or even to help out in a more hands-on way.  I think you can combine lighting with costume in some creative ways to help highlight some of the more important plot points, and also help bring out certain aspects of the character relationships.”

Marcus:  “Interesting.  I’d love to – ”

Annabelle:  “Yeah, and SOUND design.”  (shakes her head)

(silence)

Marcus:  “OK, great!  I think this has been a really helpful session, and I look forward to meeting again next month.  Thank you all for your time and input!”

Annabelle:  “I mean, QUESTIONS.  You know?  Like, what is the Hare FEELING?  What is he WEARING?  Where IS he, really?  You know?  From an acting standpoint.”

At this point, there was a particularly loud cacophony of thumping, tubas, and some sort of high-pitched screeching, which allowed us to burst into laughter, comments on the attic space and the plight of the theatre professional, and the success of the evening.

I guess Annabelle will be left with her questions.

April 16, 2011: Edward and Rupert

Here it is, folks: my commitment to share the stories of my life as an artist in Portland.  The transition from Florida has been hard, and I haven't felt that my life here, so far, has been blog-worthy.  I'm no longer in Russia, so who cares what I'm doing?

Well, the answer needs to be: I do, so You Do Too.  One of the things my Russian acting teachers asked us to do was give our "impressions," weekly.  We would talk about people we saw on the street, or the differences or similarities between life in Russia and life in the States, how theatre performances that we saw changed us, classes, relationships -- for 3 months in Russia, almost everything was new, so there was a lot to talk about.  Actors are storytellers, and it's important to recognize and share the stories in our lives, whether they're happy, surprising, thrilling, or sad or difficult to share.  Noticing and weaving the stories of my life helps me stay awake, passionate, and motivated, and it reminds me to believe in myself and this journey I'm on.

So here it is.  My commitment to share my stories here.

I went to a film audition last week and read with the most clueless actor I have ever had the privilege of meeting.  Truly, his behavior made it impossible for me to be nervous; he made me feel joyful; he made my heart laugh.  Largely because of him, I gave a really good audition.

He walked into the large room that was both waiting area and audition space as the previous set of actors were just finishing up their read.  They were still sitting at the audition table, and although they didn't appear to be reading scripts, they were still talking with the auditioners.  This guy, we'll call him Rupert, strode confidently into the space from outside, breathing audibly ("Whew!  Woo!  Wow!"), taking off his coat as he walked straight up to the audition table and into the group of actors already seated there.  He offered his hand to the middle auditioner, introduced himself, and began telling a long story about how he would have been late because he missed his bus, so he decided to call a cab and boy was it EXPENSIVE, but thankfully he was on time, and he was so happy to meet everyone!  By the time he had finished his story, the actors who had been sitting at the table said their quiet goodbyes and left, and the auditioners asked me and another guy (we'll call him Edward) to join them at the table.

We sat down and introduced ourselves, and as Rupert said his name, he continued with, "Now, you want me to read the part of the gay guy, right?  I have to tell you, I can't do the gay lisp."  (... I know.  I'm not making this up.)  "I can't do the gay lisp,"  Rupert says.  "I've been working on it all week, and I asked all my gay friends to teach me, but I just can't do it.  So could I also read the other role?"

I think, if I had been sitting on the other side of the table, I might have said "thanks for coming in, Rupert, we've seen all we need to see; don't call us, we'll call you."  But instead, one of the auditioners explained to him very reasonably that there were many ways to play the part of the "gay guy," and a "gay lisp" really wasn't necessary at all, but if there was time he could certainly read the other role.

We began reading, Edward on my left as my boyfriend, and Rupert on my right as our (gay) friend.  Edward was reading the script off his laptop computer screen; Rupert had taken a script sitting on the table and was reading from it.  (Does it go without saying that I had printed off the sides they emailed to us and brought them with me?  Well, I had.)

You know how in scripts there are often brief stage directions between the lines of dialog?  "He moves to shake her hand;" "He walks to the bar and pours himself a drink;" "He laughs condescendingly;" that sort of thing?  Well, Rupert read them out loud.  Sometimes twice (first quickly and quietly and then loudly and faster), so he could follow them at the same time.  Thus, the beginning of our read-through went something like this:

Me:  "I'm nervous that we came here tonight.  Maybe we should go."

Edward: (scrolling on his computer, pause) "Don't worry sugar plum, I know she will help us."

Rupert:  "Knocking on the door and smiling at his friends.  Knocking on the door and smiling at his friends.  Maybe she's not home."

I know.  I'm not making this up.  Somehow, we got to the end of the scene.  Edward apologized for his many pauses, saying his computer was having trouble loading the whole script, at which point one of the auditioners asked him if he would like a paper copy.  Then we read it a second time (so that Rupert could have a shot at the other part).  The auditioners thanked us for our time, Edward and I made a quick and graceful departure while Rupert stayed to discuss with the auditioners how MUCH he LOVED the script and how FUNNY that ending was...

I got an email yesterday: I got the part.  If I show up on the first day and Rupert is there, I'm leaving.